A Year to the Day
by CarpeDiemForLife
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is dead. A year later, John is feeling empty and broken and lost. Life is too difficult to continue on. He makes a decision to end his pain, but a surprising revelation may stop him from making a big mistake. Warning: suicidal thoughts. No established pairings.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: I'm warning you all in advance. This is not going to turn into a full-fledged story. Neither is it a oneshot; I plan to post a second part to this. But that's all. Personally, I believe that it will be worth the read anyways and the ending will be something that leaves the rest partially up to your own imaginations, which in this case, I think will not be a bad thing. I hope you, my readers, trust me on this. And I hope I'm correct. Anyways! Warning over. Please enjoy! And please do review._

* * *

A year to the day. It had been a full year since the world's only consulting detective Sherlock Holmes had jumped off the roof of St. Bart's Hospital, committing suicide despite the pleas of his best friend.

John could still remember everything just as clearly as if it had been only yesterday. Sherlock standing on the roof, looking as splendid as ever with his pale skin, high cheekbones, ruffled black curls, long dark coat, and traditional blue scarf. His smooth baritone voice coming through the phone's receiver with a slight tremor, betraying his tears. That, more than anything else, frightened John. It simply wasn't like Sherlock to cry.

But John had also thought that it wasn't like Sherlock to jump. John was wrong on both accounts, as it would seem.

Earlier in the day John had considered going out and getting hopelessly drunk in an attempt to erase the memories which haunted him on this day even more than usual. He dismissed the thought quickly. He was too numb to make the effort to drink himself into oblivion. Besides, it seemed an insult to Sherlock's memory to allow himself to get sloshed on a day that now, in John's mind, was equivalent to Sherlock himself. Sherlock would never have allowed himself to get drunk, to allow his senses to be dulled in such a pathetic way.

So it was that John ended up as no more than a dead weight in his cushioned chair, with nothing but memories of Sherlock to fill his thoughts. Picture upon picture flooded his mind's eye, visions of the deceased detective teasing him cruelly. Sherlock leaning against the wall beside him, panting happily from a chase across London. Sherlock ripping off John's bomb-rigged jacket by the pool. Sherlock giving one of his rare chuckles whilst sitting in Buckingham Palace wearing nothing but a bedsheet.

John squeezed his eyes shut, hardly surprised that when he opened them again there was water welling at the bottom of his lids. His pale hands trembled uncontrollably, and John was too numb to care, much less do anything about it.

Suddenly, John was struck with a realization. Living without Sherlock had been a torment like no other, worse than Harry's drinking, worse than getting shot in the war, worse than everything. With Sherlock gone, John felt dead. His life-source had disappeared, leaving him nothing more than an empty encasement of flesh and bone. Why should he go on living like a corpse without even having the benefit of escaping his pain? The answer was so plain.

It would be better to be an _actual _corpse.

As he left the flat, John realized that his feet already knew where they were taking him. Perhaps he had subconsciously been considering suicide for a long time without even realizing it. Well, all the better.

The walk was hardly short, but it did nothing to faze John. He merely continued planting foot after foot, steadily becoming closer to the site that had been forever tainted for him precisely one year ago.

When he finally reached his destination, John stopped. He hadn't been to this place since the incident. In fact, he had been avoiding it all year long. It was strange to be back.

Gazing at the cold gray building, his eyes skimmed the words "St. Bart's Hospital"; he already knew each plastered letter by heart. John felt no fear as he stared at the building that he had chosen for his suicide, he felt only a heavy sense of acceptance and something akin to peace.

After spending a good few minutes standing outside the hospital in silent recollection, John made his way inside, quickly ascending the first staircase he reached.

* * *

Molly stumbled out of the coffee shop, attempting to push through the door while simultaneously tucking her wallet back into her purse and holding a cup of coffee in the other hand. Having successfully achieved all three endeavors, Molly stopped for a brief moment just outside the shop, looking across the street towards her workplace.

The unlucky coffee crashed onto the pavement below. Molly paid no heed to the brown liquid spilling over her shoes; her attention was preoccupied with something else entirely.

Molly's eyes were wide open in shock at the sight in front of her. There stood John Watson, looking up at the tragic building. She was frozen in place as a flashback slammed into her consciousness.

"_This number is strictly private and must never be shared with anyone. I am only giving it to you, Miss Hooper, because Sherlock wishes you to assist me in protecting the good doctor while Sherlock is… away. For this reason alone are you granted direct access to me through this phone. You must only contact me if there is an emergency, something that you feel threatens Dr. Watson's life. Do you understand that Miss Hooper?"_

"_Y-yes Mr. Holmes, I understand completely," answered Molly, frightened by the cold, authoritative voice that the elder Holmes used with her. Truthfully Molly was amazed that Mycroft felt he even had to go over these rules. Of _course_ she would never call Mycroft except in the direst of circumstances; he was hardly the sort of man with whom she would like to stop and have a nice chat. The very thought sent nervous shivers down her spine._

"_The only emergency I can foresee at this time is if he should ever come to St. Bart's Hospital. If he does so, you must inform me immediately. It is of the utmost importance."_

"_I- I don't quite understand, sir, sorry… but um… why is that, exactly?" Mycroft Holmes fixed her with a stare as deadly serious as the one Sherlock had given her as they discussed his imminent death._

"_Because if John Watson ever returns to St. Bart's Hospital, it will mean only one thing. He intends to kill himself."_

Two shaking hands dove into Molly's purse, scrambling desperately for her mobile. A few seconds later she was frantically scrolling through her contacts, pressing SEND when she reached Mycroft's name.

The phone rang for a mere second before he picked up.

"Miss Hooper, what is the emergency?" the smooth voice at the other end of the line asked immediately.

"It's John," she replied nervously, attempting to keep her voice from trembling. Her eyes remained fixed on the man in question, but as of yet he had not moved. She could only hope that this was a good sign. "He's here- I mean, he's at St. Bart's- I mean, he's not actually _in_ the hospital yet, but he's sort of just… standing outside. He's been there for a couple of minutes now at the least. I just came out of the coffee shop and saw him there. But he- Oh no, Mr. Holmes, please, he's just gone inside. What do I do? Sh-should I follow him? I could- I could talk to him, or, oh God…"

"Miss Hooper!" snapped Mycroft, scolding her impatiently. "I must ask you to control yourself. I have already sent a team over. There is no need for you to provide your assistance any longer; I have this situation under control. Goodbye Miss Hooper."

Molly was left stunned as the line cut out. But only momentarily. Attempting to steady her shaken nerves, Molly tossed her head defiantly and muttered,

"Like hell."

Wasting no more time, Molly raced across the street, following John's path up the stairs and towards the roof.

* * *

"John!" John didn't flinch as he heard his name called desperately from behind him.

"There's no use, Molly," he said. John was surprised by the way his voice sounded strangled. Oh well. "I'm sure you've come up here to convince me not to do it, but it's what I want. Leave it alone."

"I can't," was the forceful reply. Molly's voice was getting louder; she was getting closer to where he stood near the edge. "You're my friend. I won't just let you die." Now he turned to face her. John supposed he ought to feel grateful, but instead he merely felt frustrated.

"Oh, is that so? Well _Sherlock_ was your friend, wasn't he? And where's Sherlock now, Molly? You damn well didn't stop _him _from dying! So there's no need for you to try with me." John pretended not to notice the extreme look of hurt on Molly's face. "Besides, I'm not asking your permission. I'm not asking anyone's permission. My best friend is _dead_. Just like one of your damn corpses in the morgue. And you know what? I'm just like one of them too, only I don't look it. My beating heart says otherwise, so I'm going to fix that. You can't stop me."

John started to turn back around, ready to make the last few steps towards the edge when he heard her sad whisper.

"Yes I can."

Confused, he turned back around slowly. Molly looked guilty, shuffling her feet a bit, but her eyes were still locked on him determinedly.

"What?" he asked.

"I _can_ stop you. I already have."

"What are you _talking _about?" he demanded. "I could jump right this second and you'd have no way of stopping me. If you think I won't knock down a woman, you're very wrong, I promise."

Taking a deep breath, Molly planted herself firmly on the ground, trying not to appear as nervous as she was.

"I… I called Mycroft." The words took a moment to sink in, but once they processed, John felt an angry fire course through his veins.

"…You… called Mycroft. Well this is none of his damn business," he hissed. Whirling around, John rushed to the edge of the building, peering down. Sure enough, there was a whole team down there with a mattress. Clearly they would move it to wherever he jumped from, and if he landed on that thing, death would not be the result. Injuries could be possible, but that wasn't what he wanted. He wanted to die. Refusing to give up, John stood still for a moment, trying to think of a way to outsmart them and still achieve his goal.

Suddenly, a loud sound from above ripped through his thoughts and caused both John and Molly to look upwards in surprise. Not far away—and getting closer—was a helicopter, clearly intent on landing on the roof of St. Bart's, seeing as none other than Mycroft Holmes sat in the passenger seat. Molly and John backed up to opposite sides of the roof to escape the powerful whirling air and to allow the aircraft to land. When it did, Mycroft immediately stepped out, looking as refined as ever in his tailored suit. He was followed by two men that John could only presume were bodyguards.

John wanted more than anything to just run away, perhaps to jump off the roof simply to get away this man. But he couldn't. John was frozen in place by an intense hate, one that pinned his fists to his sides and made his jaw clench as his veins struggled not to pop.

"Come now, John," said Mycroft, appearing as calm and superior as always. John had no doubt that a self-important smirk was just waiting there beneath of the surface of his lips. "Time to go home."

John shook his head sharply.

"I came here for a purpose and I'm not leaving till I've done it. Call your men off."

"I'm afraid that isn't an option," replied Mycroft. "Now come, John. Do not make me force you. That is not something I would like to do."

"Is that so, Mycroft?" snarled John, taking a step towards the taller man. "Well too bad I don't give a damn about what you do or don't like. I don't give a damn what you think. You have no right to stop me."

"That hardly matters, seeing as I have the capability to do so. You are powerless to resist me, and it would be impractical to pretend otherwise," he stated dryly. Looking at John's hate-filled face for another moment, Mycroft released a sigh, and his features softened into something that looked like concern. "Sherlock would not have wanted you to do this, John. He would have wanted you to continue living."

Seething, John lunged forward, grabbing for Mycroft's suit, ready to beat the crap out of him. Unfortunately he was grabbed by two other men before he got the chance. John thrashed in their grip, but they held him tight.

"It doesn't bloody matter what Sherlock wants anymore!" he shouted angrily, still thrashing with all his might. "Because he's _dead_! And it's because of you, Mycroft. My best friend, your _brother_, is dead and it's all your fucking fault! Damn you, damn you to hell!"

Mycroft's two bodyguards began dragging John back towards the helicopter, their boss watching with a composed, if sad, expression.

"No!" screamed John, losing it completely. He was still fighting, only this time he was trying to break free in order to make his way back to the roof's edge. "Let me go! Let go, dammit! I want to die, please God, I want to die! Noooo!"

Tears were now flowing uncontrollably down John's face, but somehow, he did manage to get the upper hand. Breaking free, he rushed forward several feet, before being caught again and hauled unceremoniously towards the helicopter. By now the tears were coming down so thick, and the pain was so deep, that John could not get out any words. He could only scream. And scream he did.

* * *

John's tears broke Molly's heart. She hated seeing him like that, more than anything in the world. It just wasn't fair that he couldn't know the truth.

Tears of her own began to fall as she watched the heart-breaking scene before her. John lashing out wildly, escaping the clutches of the two men as he yelled and sobbed, only to be recaptured moments later.

Now he was screaming through his tears. His screams tore through her already shredded heart, and Molly realized that she was running to him. She wanted to comfort him, to tell him it would be alright.

But it wouldn't. At least, for him it wouldn't. Because John believed that his best friend in the world, the one that John felt like dying without, was dead, and nothing could ever change that in his mind.

John was nearly at the helicopter now. They only needed to lift him up into it. His screams had subdued, his voice giving out. Instead he was groaning. Somehow these sounds were just as heart-breaking as the screams. There was such deep agony in them; Molly finally couldn't stand it anymore.

"John, he's- he's alive! Sherlock's not dead, he's alive!"

Molly wished to see John's reaction to her declaration, but suddenly a very tall and angry Mycroft stood directly in front of her, blocking her view.

"_Restrain_ yourself, Miss Hooper," he hissed, the fury clear in his voice. Molly swallowed nervously. Somehow Mycroft Holmes, when angry, reminded her of the psychopath she had once dated. Molly shook her head to clear her mind of thoughts of Moriarty. They had no place here and now.

"Wha-… What the _hell_ are you talking about?" croaked a voice from behind Mycroft. Mycroft stiffened and Molly bit her lip fearfully. But still, she felt as if a load had been taken off her shoulders. She had told the truth. She had possibly spared John endless suffering. Sherlock would surely understand. Wouldn't he?

John's tone of voice made Molly want to give him a hug. She didn't, of course. Couldn't, with Mycroft standing there. But John's emotions were so clear. He was trying to be harsh, cruel, disbelieving, but truly he was broken, and so clearly wanted to believe. If John believed in anything, it was Sherlock performing miracles, and Molly could see that he couldn't help but to hope that this miracle was true.

Mycroft spun around to face John.

"Do not allow yourself to hope, John. Sherlock is dead. You took his pulse yourself when he hit the ground. Miss Hooper merely wished to stop your pain, not realizing that sometimes it is best to _hold one's tongue_." Molly flinched. "To you, John, the scenario where Sherlock miraculously survived is a lie that is preferable to the truth; that is why you are so eager to believe Miss Hooper."

"Let me talk to her," demanded John. Molly could see Mycroft's body tense as he weighed his options, after a moment, he stepped aside so that Molly could see John once more. He had collapsed in front of the helicopter, where the two men had dropped him after Molly's declaration, but now he was pulling himself up into a standing position.

"Molly…" he said carefully, his eyes blazing intensely. "Why did you say that?"

Molly glanced nervously at Mycroft, who shot her a dangerous glare. The message was clear. She wasn't allowed to tell the truth. She had to go along with Mycroft's story.

But what could Mycroft do to her if she didn't? Somehow she knew that Sherlock wouldn't let him hurt her, even if he wanted to. And she didn't want to keep lying to John. It was wrong, it was _so_ wrong. And she couldn't bear to send him back into his pit of despair and misery.

"Because it's true and I couldn't bear to lie anymore."

"_Miss_ Hooper, I will have you brought up on charges and thrown in jail," snarled Mycroft.

"He deserves to know!" she shouted back, suddenly angry as well. "Can't you see what Sherlock's death has done to him? He was prepared to kill himself today! I'm not going to let him go on living like this! Shame on you and Sherlock both for allowing it to begin with. John deserves to know the truth and he deserves better treatment from you both."

Mycroft's eyes flared.

"You do not understand the precarious situation we have found ourselves in, Miss Hooper. My brother and I, despite whatever you may think, do not enjoy this any more than you do. There is a matter of safety involved."

"Damn right there is: _John's_ safety. Namely the fact that _he nearly committed suicide_!"

"He could face much worse because of your actions today!" snapped Mycroft. Molly immediately froze. "As could several other people. All because you are a foolish girl who couldn't keep her mouth _shut_!"

Molly was practically on the verge of crying, and she couldn't decide whether to yell back or to apologize.

"Alright, cut it, both of you," interrupted John in annoyance. Finally they both turned to him. He looked much steadier than earlier, and very determined.

"Mycroft, tell me what the hell has been going on." Glaring one last time at Molly, Mycroft turned a bitter smirk towards John.

"Perhaps somewhere… more discreet? If you would, John." John glanced at the helicopter.

"I want Molly to come too." Mycroft sneered but assented, and they all boarded the aircraft and took off into the sky.

* * *

**Remember to review everybody!**


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's Note: And here it is! The second part that I promised. It's quite a bit shorter. I hope you like it!_

* * *

Mycroft seated himself in the plush armchair behind his desk, motioning John and Molly to pull up their own.

"Please, have a seat, John, Miss Hooper."

_I hope this ruins your bloody rug, you miserable git_, John thought bitterly, dragging the chair across the carpeted floor.

During the short helicopter ride, John's emotions had had time to simmer and come to a boil. Upon first hearing that Sherlock was—possibly—alive, John had forced himself to remain calm, to restrain his yearning to believe, to hear all the facts before reacting. But in the past ten minutes or so, John's restraints had begun to fade away. Now he was becoming bitter and angry. Whatever was or was not true, it was clear that _some_thing was going on behind his back and clearly Mycroft was in the thick of it. Molly too, for that matter, and some of his anger was certainly directed her way, but nothing like the fury he felt in regards to Sherlock's cold older brother.

Mycroft pressed a button on his desk and a woman's voice could be heard over the intercom asking, _"What do you need, Mr. Holmes?"_ John recognized the voice of 'Anthea', Mycroft's assistant. She did not sound impertinent with her question, it simply sounded as if this were so routine that she could just get straight to the point.

"Nothing at the moment. Just be sure not to enter this room, or to let anyone else enter, under any circumstances, until I ring for you again. No matter what happens. This is of the severest importance. Is that understood?"

"_Perfectly, Mr. Holmes."_ The line buzzed out. Mycroft turned his attention to the room's other two occupants, steepling his hands under his chin the way that Sherlock used to. John clenched his jaw tight.

"Now we may proceed to speak freely. I am entirely certain that this room is neither bugged nor watched, and my assistant will guard that door with-"

"I don't give a damn about any of that," snapped John. "I just want answers. Explanations. From the both of you. _Now_." Molly squirmed uncomfortably in her chair. A flicker of something crossed over Mycroft's face, but it was gone too quickly for John to identify the emotion.

"What is it specifically that you wish to know?" asked Mycroft slowly.

"Damn it Mycroft!" shouted John, slamming his hand down on the wooden desk. Molly jumped at the loud bang. "Stop acting like such a bloody politician and be straight with me. Where is Sherlock? What happened that day? If he didn't… do what I saw him do, then what _did_ happen? I want to know exactly what's going on and exactly how the two of you got involved in it while I was left tortured in the dark."

Mycroft observed John in silence for a moment, receiving a dangerous glare in response. Mycroft sighed, rubbing his forehead with his hand.

"You must understand the complexities of the situation, John. There are many reasons why the truth has been kept a secret from you, namely that your very safety depended on it."

"Explain it to me."

Mycroft paused.

"Very well…"

And with that, Mycroft launched into an explanation of the truth behind Sherlock's faked suicide. Moriarty's predictable threats, Sherlock's plan to take down Moriarty's web in secret. How he was unable to return until that task was fully completed because otherwise he would be putting the lives of his friends in jeopardy.

Molly interrupted once or twice to add details to the parts of the story for which she was present. Mycroft talked about how Sherlock had come to Mycroft and Molly in his time of need simply because he needed their services and knew also that they would not be in as much danger as John, Lestrade, or Mrs. Hudson.

John could see the sad wince on Molly's face when Mycroft said this, and even Mycroft seemed very solemn, like a shadow had passed over his face. If he hadn't been containing his rightful fury at the pair for their deceit, John would have felt pity for them. They so clearly wished to be more important to Sherlock than they actually were. John tried not to feel at all smug about his own importance, but his bitterness only fueled this emotion.

More than once during the tale, John had to restrain himself from letting loose and throwing a fit. He wanted to scream and throw things. It simply wasn't fair, what had been done to him! He'd been living in agony while these two people could have spared him all along.

Yes, it was noble to want to protect John's life, but it was _his_ life after all. He ought to be given the choice how to live it! A small rush of anger was aimed at Sherlock, but the mere fact of Sherlock still being alive made it impossible for John to be _too_ mad. He was more relieved than anything. He could almost cry with joy.

Mycroft wrapped up by describing how, after his faked suicide, Sherlock had practically begged Mycroft to look after John, to make sure he came to no harm. And of course, as Molly pointed out, she was enlisted to aid in this endeavor as well.

Absorbing this information, John kept his face impassive. After a minute of silence, Mycroft simply watching and waiting for the reply that John was clearly formulating, John spoke slowly.

"So… you've been aware every time I've gotten dangerously drunk by trying to drown the memories of Sherlock with alcohol, I assume?"

"I keep… aware of these occasions, yes."

"And every time I didn't show up for work because I couldn't make myself get out of bed in the morning, you were monitoring me?"

"…Yes."

"And obviously you were watching me the time that Mrs. Hudson and I had to evacuate 221b because I became dazed and confused while cooking and nearly burnt the building down?"

"You were never in any significant danger, John; I can assure you of that. Had I ever felt that your safety was seriously compromised I would have, of course, intervened, as I did today."

"Never in any significant danger…?" repeated John, dumbstruck. "I think our definitions of significant danger must differ quite a lot, Mycroft."

"Perhaps they do. And yet, if you will notice, you are still alive and well enough to be sitting here today. Whatever I have or have not done has been effective, wouldn't you agree?"

"And what does Sherlock have to say about all this?" asked John instead, fighting the urge to scream at the Ice Man for his callous behavior in regards to the preservation of John's life.

John was surprised to see the genius squirm a bit at this question. Mycroft cleared his throat uncomfortably and met John's eyes with a look of regret and apology.

"I'm afraid that… I no longer keep tabs on Sherlock's whereabouts." John stood stock still, processing this new information and feeling the anger spread through his veins.

"Translation… you lost him. You lost track of your own brother. He managed to give you the slip and now even you—_you_, Mycroft! The bloody British government!—are unable to find him. That about sum it up?" Mycroft gave John his characteristic wry smile.

"In short, yes." John impressively lunged over the desk and landed his fist on Mycroft's nose before Mycroft or Molly had processed what was going on.

Mycroft let out a cry of pain as his nose snapped under John's knuckles and he tumbled out of the chair. Lying momentarily on the floor, John heaving livid breaths above him, Mycroft pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his nose.

John brushed off the front of his sweater, clearing his throat calmly. Molly watched everything go down with wide eyes, at a complete loss for what to do.

"John!" she exclaimed frantically, "Wha- Whatever did you do that for? Um, no, that's um… That's a bad question, I suppose I… Well I do understand how you feel-"

"You do _not_ understand how I feel, Molly," disputed John fiercely. Molly's cheeks reddened but she rose out of her chair.

"I may not understand exactly how you feel, but I'm sure Mycroft knows what he was doing. If you'd ever been in- in _serious_ trouble, I'm absolutely sure he would have-"

Molly cut off as John let out a loud laugh. Mycroft was taking the opportunity to rest on the floor and watch the other two in an attempt to decipher the situation and regain control.

"You think that's what this is about?" he cried incredulously. "Mycroft's suck-ass protection of my life? Since when have I cared two bits about my own life?"

Molly flinched and stuttered nonsense in confusion, but Mycroft understood.

"Miss Hooper, contain yourself. John is not upset because I have failed to devote myself to his protection; he is upset that I let Sherlock slip under the radar. His only concern at the moment is Sherlock's safety."

Molly's head snapped from Mycroft to John, who was gritting his teeth at being deduced—he'd hated it enough when Sherlock did it, but Mycroft was nearly unbearable—but remaining quiet.

"O-Oh I… I see," she said.

"Well," said Mycroft, struggling to his feet while holding the reddened handkerchief to his bloody nose. "What is it that you plan to do now, Dr. Watson?"

With a slight shake of the head to clear his thoughts, John straightened up and stood in a composed manner.

"There's only one thing _to_ do," John replied seriously. He met Mycroft's dark eyes with a determined stare. "I'm going to go find my best friend before he gets himself killed. It's a wonder he's lasted this long without me already."

"That would be highly insensible to attempt, John," warned Mycroft.

"I don't care," interrupted John, shaking his head with a smile. "I'm not going to wait any longer. I'm not going to let Sherlock be the one that determines when I get to start living again. This is my life, and I'll do what I want with it."

"And what you want is to embark on a mission that risks the life of not only yourself, but Sherlock as well?" John shrugged.

"As I figure it, he's already out there risking his life. I won't just sit at home and wait for him to come back safe and sound. That's not me. That's not _us_. If he's out there risking his life, then that's where I should be. Out there risking my life right beside him.

"So, if you don't mind—and even if you _do_ mind, actually!—… I'm leaving now. I've got to go see a homeless network about a man."

* * *

_Please remember to review!_


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